


The Future's Open Wide

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hunk keeps a running tally of 'I Told You So's', M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-03 02:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11523099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: "You don’t see it now, but high school’s one giant mess and you freshmen always seem to get the worst of it.  You’re going to have a lot more drama to worry about than who can shoot lasers from their eyes.”“…That’s not going to stop me from hoping.”His older brother rolls his eyes and scoffs.  “With how fastyourun your mouth?  My bets are on super speed.”In which Lance must find a date to homecoming, unlock his latent superpower, and survive high school.  Not necessarily in that order.  Sky High AU.





	The Future's Open Wide

**Author's Note:**

> BIG BANG PIECE FINALLY HERE !!!! 14k+ of pure, unadulterated teenage superhero shenanigans. This fic was a blast to write and I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> special thanks to Priya, who helped me with the title (taken from the iconic "I'll Melt With You" because I'm nothing if not loyal to my source material).
> 
> also, shout out to @voltronbang for organizing this event, voltron peeps in the miraculous ladybug server for letting me share my snippets, and [@dork-sen](http://dork-sen.tumblr.com/) for the accompanying illustrations :)
> 
> without further ado, enjoy! :D

At eight years old, Lance knew two things:

  1. His parents were superheroes.
  2. One day, he was going to be one, too.



“Turn on the TV!”

Anais comes running into the living room, Manny’s head resting against her shoulder.  Their youngest brother is fast asleep, but he stirs slightly at the excitement leaking from his empath sister.  Her aura touches Tommy and Lance, too, spurring them to halt construction of their Lego cinema in order to locate the remote.

The daily news channel crackles to life and fills the television screen, in the midst of broadcasting an aerial view of downtown.  A giant robot patrols its midst, its head occasionally visible between the towers breaking the skyline.  Without warning, a blue streak appears from the corner, ice blooming along the giant’s joints.  The offending figure, barely larger than a mosquito in comparison, quickly wheels away.

“It’s Mamá and Papá!” Tommy hooks an arm around Lance’s neck, nearly taking _him_ down as the robot falters onscreen and then starts to tip forward.  “Wow, they beat the bad guy just like that.”

“Let go of me,” complains Lance, squirming in his grip.

“Only if you say _please_ ,” singsongs Tommy, eyes quickly returning to the TV.  “I can’t wait ‘til _we_ get our powers,” he sighs, resting his cheek against his free hand.  Despite the rumpled collar of his polo shirt and the mess of his dark hair, in that moment he looks older than his ten years, glowing with some higher purpose, on the cusp of something great.  “That’ll be us someday.”

Lance gives up struggling and sags against Tommy’s side, choosing to devote his energy to entertaining various possibilities instead.  Heat-ray vision, maybe.  Or super strength.

“Yeah,” he agrees.  “Someday.”

 

*

 

“Ay, mija.”  Mamá clucks her tongue, reaching over to lightly tug at one of Sofia’s pigtails.  “What’s with you this morning?  You’re about to fall face-first into your cereal.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the youngest McClain pouts.  “Manny was glowing all night.”

“Glowing? What—” Light flares in Mamá’s eyes, the pieces falling into place.  “Oh, Manny!  You got your powers!”

Across the table, Lance’s eight-year-old brother beams.  The table bursts into chatter: Tommy and Anais teasing Manny about what his superhero name will be— _Glowworm, Lightning Bug—_ Sofia butting in to insist, petulantly, _Manny said **I** would get to pick!_

Lance reaches for his glass of milk, making a show of chugging it so that no one will expect him to say anything.

It’s not like he’s _not_ happy for Manny.  Just that it seems slightly unfair, in the grand scheme of things, that Lance endured a whole summer of voice cracks and growth spurts and came out of it with nothing but the ability to grow a few mustache hairs.  Puberty was supposed to unlock his powers, or something, but he’s starting to think that his genes might need to be activated through some other means.  _Radioactive spider_ seems as safe a place to start as any—     

Out of nowhere, someone flicks his forehead.

“Ow! Jerk!” splutters Lance, glaring as Tommy’s arm retracts to its usual length, like a giant spring returning to equilibrium.  “Do that again and I’ll tie your arm into a pretzel.”

“Ooh, I’m so scared.”

“Leave him alone, Tommy,” reprimands Mamá.  “He has enough on his mind.”  She nods towards the untouched bacon on Lance’s plate.  “Better hurry up and finish so you don’t miss the bus.”

The doorbell rings.

“That’s my cue,” says Lance, grabbing what he can and shoving it between his teeth as he slides out of his chair.  At the front door, his backpack makes him wobble a bit as he bends over to put on his shoes, but soon enough he’s out on the porch, mood brightening significantly at the sight of his best friend.

“Ready?” asks Hunk.

“Please,” says Lance, pushing his shoulders back and striding ahead of Hunk.  “I was born ready.”

 

*

 

In theory, Lance knows what to expect.  In turns out, however, that _actually_ being strapped into a school bus with an annoyingly loud rattling window as it hurtles through the air is not _quite_ the same experience Tommy made it out to be.

“I’m going to throw up,” Hunk says next to him, squeezing his hand.

“Aw c’mon, this isn’t so bad.”

“That’s because one of your parents _flies_!  But not me, nope.  You know what I like about plants?  They have roots.  They hold on to things.  Like _solid ground._ ”

“You’re holding on to _me_ ,” Lance points out, at the same time that Pidge swivels around in the seat in front of them to ask, abruptly, “Guys, are you nervous?”

Lance ponders for a minute.  It’s something they glossed over, in the midst of updating each other about their summers. 

“Maybe a little, but that’s just because, you know, I don’t have…” He lowers his voice and spreads his hands, indicating their emptiness.  “You guys, though?  You’ll be fine.”

“It’s not the school stuff I’m worried about, it’s the _high school_ part.”

“There’s a difference?” asks Hunk.

“Definitely.”

“Well, Pidge, if you’re convinced you’re going to have that much free time, maybe you could—”

“No, Lance, I’m not building you a flying suit.”

 

*

 

The first thing Lance notices about Altea High are the white and blue stone archways.  The main building is shaped like a giant rocket with four other smaller—but still imposing—pods planted around it, like flower petals surrounding their central pistil.

The _second_ thing Lance notices is the very tall, very pretty girl standing in front of the fountain, a giant megaphone held in front of her mouth as she directs traffic.

“Welcome, freshmen!  Cafeteria doors are straight ahead and to the left.  Follow Shiro over there, he’ll show you the way.”

“Oh, no,” says Hunk, catching the dreamy look on Lance’s face as they move past the fountain in a sea of backpacks.  “Don’t even think about it.”

“That’s Allura,” supplies Pidge.  “Junior, student council president, _also_ the principal’s daughter, so… probably a no-go.”

 _Allura._ Lance makes a mental note to steal Tommy’s yearbook so he can investigate later, though part of him has already committed her piercing blue eyes and silver dyed hair to memory.

“Saying something is off-limits is only going to encourage him,” grumbles Hunk. 

“My mama didn’t raise no quitter,” says Lance, offering his brightest grin.  “Come on, that’s what you love about me.”

Spirits high, he pulls ahead of his two friends, reinvigorated by his determination to make the most of their first day.

 

*

 

Once upon a time (read: all of elementary and middle school), Lance was the first kid dressed out for gym class.  He chalked it up to growing up with his siblings; competition in the McClain household was fierce, especially during Fourth of July water gun battles, so the prospect of any kind of contest—dodgeball, windsprints, Knockout—got the blood pumping in his veins.

Currently, though, Lance is of the mindset that high school gym class is a whole other beast entirely, designed, specifically, as an instrument of humiliation.

“Lance McClain,” Coach Haggar reads flatly, looking down at her clipboard. “Show me your superpower.”

Coach Haggar is a bit scary, _not_ that Lance would ever admit so aloud.  On her features, approval registers only as a brief curl of the mouth, and there’s still something menacing about it, mostly because of how jarring it is.  So far, only some girl with heat ray vision and a guy who can shoot plasma bolts from his hands have garnered any sort of reaction, and even then, Haggar brusquely sorted them as heroes before proceeding to the next name on her list.

So Lance isn’t looking to impress her.  It’s his classmates that he’s worried about.

Already, a buzz has crept through some of them at the name _McClain_ : “Tommy’s little brother?” whispers someone, as another says, “That whole family is loaded with firepower,” and an ugly feeling rises in Lance’s chest.  It’s the same one he used to get at piano recitals, some cocktail of anxiety, yearning, and frustration.  Anais and Tommy would always go before him, with their showy arpeggios and trills, fingers flying over the keys, the audience wowed by their sheer dexterity.  And Manny and Sofia always had youth in their favor: a quick smile, a dimpled cheek, and it was all utter adoration from there.  Which left Lance in the middle, vying for the scraps. 

“McClain,” Coach Haggar repeats, pen tapping steadily in what Lance has started to internalize as his personal countdown to doom.  “Don’t waste my time.”

“See, ah, that’s the thing,” he stalls.  He flexes his fingers before balling them into fists, nails digging into his palm.  “I…”   

It’s not like he didn’t know this moment would come.  The day after his fifteenth birthday, when he’d gone to bed and woken up the next morning and still— _nothing—_ he’d been devastated.  Mamá and Papá had tried to comfort him, told him it didn’t matter, but their reassurances had only sounded like defeat.  And that _sucked,_ because Lance had devoted his whole life to designing costumes and constructing alter egos in his head.  Even though he’d spent all summer trying to come to terms with the idea of “Just Lance, Average Guy but Best Sidekick Ever,” a tiny part of him had hoped that maybe, just maybe, the universe would pull through at the last minute.   

_Hunk, you know about flowers and stuff.  Do you think I’m just a late bloomer?_

_I don’t know, Lance.  But superpowers or not, you’re still the guy I’d pick to watch my back._

“Idon’thaveone.”

“You’re mumbling,” says Haggar. 

“I don’t have one,” Lance says, louder.  Tries not to let his voice crack.  “Superpower: nothing.”

Immediately, the crowd hushes.  Coach Haggar, however, doesn’t seem shocked in the slightest by his admission, and somehow that stings worse, like he’s just a walking billboard with _mediocre_ stamped across. Cheeks burning, Lance waits long enough for her to label him “hero support” before he gets off the stage, shoulders hunched.

“I guess _one_ of them had to end up as the normie,” someone eventually murmurs, and Lance shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, resisting the urge to flip up his hood and cinch it shut by the drawstrings.  The next girl onstage can shapeshift, but only into a guinea pig.  Quite a few people laugh, but Lance thinks he’d give his right arm to be able to even morph into a puddle of goo, if only because that would mean he could at least do _something._

Hunk squeezes his shoulder.  Lance leans a little into him, grateful that Hunk knows him well enough not to ask _are you okay_ when he clearly isn’t, just lets Lance remain quiet for one of the few times in his life.

 

*

 

“Hey Lance—”

“Not now, Tommy,” Lance grumbles, hiding the yearbook under his pillow and yanking the blankets over his head as he rolls toward the wall, positioning his back toward his older brother.  “Whatever it is, I’m not in the mood.”

The sound of footsteps retreating.  Lance waits for a few beats before slowly lowering the covers from his face, convinced the coast is clear.

It isn’t.

Tommy yanks the sheets away from him lightning fast, hand snaking through the doorway to clamp around his ankle next.  Lance barely has time to grab onto his bedpost, arms straining in their sockets as he fights against his older brother’s stupid noodle arms.

“Let go of me, you asshole!”

“Look, whiner baby, I get it: your first day sucked ass,” Tommy says from a distance, the coward.  “But you can either lie in here nursing your wounded ego, or you can come downstairs while Anais is distracting Sofia and Manny so I can show you something.”

“Because _that_ doesn’t sound like a prank in the making at _all._ ”

“I’m actually serious, Lance. And we’ve got to do it now, before Mom and Dad get home.”

Risky and semi-questionable.

It sounds like a typical Tommy and Lance thing to do.

“Okay, fine,” Lance concedes.  “I’ll come.”

Tommy releases his grip.  “Knew it.”

 

*

 

Downstairs, Tommy and Lance sneak past the living room and into their dad’s study.  The room is about as well-kept as Lance remembers; he’s only been in it once or twice in the entirety of his childhood.  There are few things their parents keep from them, but Mamá and Papá’s offices have always been off-limits.

Until now, apparently.

Tommy’s fingers skim along the dark oak bookshelf, pausing on the spine of some fancy medical tome before he pushes in firmly.  A low rumble sounds from the wall as, inch by inch, the bookcase rolls aside, revealing a trap door.  Tommy drops to his knees, a smug look on his face as he pulls it open.

“Well?”   

“Honestly?” says Lance.  “I totally should have seen this coming.  Of _course_ our parents have a super secret underground lair.”

Tommy grins at him over his shoulder.  “Come on.”

The basement is better lit than Lance expected, and part of him is offended at it having been kept a secret from him for so long.  There’s pool, foosball, _and_ a fully functioning air hockey table, for crying out loud.  Along the walls, velvet ropes cordon off various displays, some encased in glass, some not.  Framed photographs, newspaper clippings, headlines screaming for his attention—it’s a whole museum to his family’s legacy, and a lump fills Lance’s throat, even as his chest pulses with pride.

“Mom and Dad showed this to me and Anais when each of us turned sixteen,” says Tommy, sidling up beside him.  “Congratulations on being ahead of the curve.”

Lance snorts.  “So you felt sorry for me and this was the only thing you could think of that would make me feel special.”  His comment lacks any actual resentment, though, because the truth is that part of him _is_ taken by the novelty, especially when his eyes land upon the blue ray gun nestled in a plush red cushion. “Holy cow, is this _the_ Blue Lion?”

“Yes,” says Tommy, arm stretching to intercept Lance before he can pick it up.  “And don’t _touch_ it, Lance, what if you set it off?”

Lance marvels at the weapon, skin buzzing with excitement.  Years ago, his parents had been involved in busting Galra, a supervillain syndicate, preventing them from assembling what was supposed to be the greatest superweapon ever.  To this day, nobody knows what the final product was intended to look like, or even what each piece on its own does—the focus had been on confiscating the tech as quickly as possible and scattering them for safekeeping.

Tommy clears his throat awkwardly.  “Look, Lance, I just wanted to bring you down here to show you that you’re part of the family business, no matter which way you go about it.  I know I give you a hard time about your powers sometimes, but it’s not… You shouldn’t worry too much, is all I’m saying.  You’re still young.”  

“Wow, spoken like you’re _so_ much older,” says Lance, still suspicious of the sudden heart-to-heart.

“Shut up.  You don’t see it now, but high school’s one giant mess and you freshmen always seem to get the worst of it.  You’re going to have a lot more drama to worry about than who can shoot lasers from their eyes.” 

“…That’s not going to stop me from hoping.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and scoffs.  “With how fast _you_ run your mouth?  My bets are on super speed.”

 

*

 

Lance surveys the terrain.  To his right, a long-limbed cheerleader flicks the end of one of her ponytails over her shoulder, and he swallows— _don’t stare, Lance, moving on—_ only to see, straight ahead, a table occupied by Allura, Shiro, and some other guy he doesn’t recognize.

“Hey, Pidge, aren’t Matt and Shiro pretty good friends?”

“Yeah…why?”

“Well, I was thinking, as Matt’s younger sister…maybe you could call in a favor and get us seating over there.”

Pidge follows where his finger is pointing and shrugs.  “I mean, yeah, I don’t see why not.”

Hunk seems on board with it, up until they draw closer and see that the guy sitting next to Shiro has a mullet, which, granted, is _weird_ but certainly not repulsive enough to warrant the reaction it gets from Hunk, who jerks back, one hand grabbing Lance’s arm.

“On second thought, maybe not such a good idea,” he says, backpedaling.

“Whoa, slow down, Hunk, what are you talking about?”

“Just trust me on this—”

“I don’t see what the issue is—” Lance frees himself from Hunk’s grip only to trip forward, the soup on his cafeteria tray arcing out of his hands in a slow-motion reenactment of every cliché teen movie ever.  Hunk, Pidge, and Lance watch in horror as it splatters all over Mullet-Head, who propels himself to his feet with stunning velocity.

The shoulders of his jacket are wet, bits of stringy chicken and pasta clinging to them.  Eyes widen in recognition before Mullet-Head’s entire face shutters, dark eyebrows drawn low over the venomous glare.

“What the hell is your _problem_ , McClain?”

“Wh-sorr-it was an accident!” Lance splutters, but the other boy has already stomped away.

Shiro gets up, placing a hand on his shoulder.  “Don’t worry too much, I’ll handle this,” he says, heading off after Mullet-Head and leaving Lance with a confused Allura and a slowly spreading puddle of chicken noodle soup.

“Uh…” Lance tries.  “Hi?”

Allura smiles, and Lance would gladly stay in that bubble of Meaningful Eye Contact for at least another hour, but Hunk elbows him sharply in the side.

“Oh, right! I should— probably clean this up,” he recovers, grabbing fistfuls of napkins from the dispenser.

“Do you want some help?”

“Nope, it’s okay, situation is under control,” Lance says, waving an arm from his crouched position. 

Hunk has managed to locate a roll of paper towels and bends down beside him, efficiently ripping off a giant wad.  “You have no idea who that was sitting next to Shiro, do you,” he says slowly.

Lance pauses.  “Not really, no.”

Hunk sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Lance, that was Keith.  Keith as in Keith _Kogane,_ as in his mom was one of the Galra that your parents busted way back.  I’m pretty sure that with whatever following in your parents’ footsteps means these days, that makes you guys sworn enemies.”

“Oh,” says Lance, dread curling in his stomach as he reevaluates the last ten minutes of his life. “Well, shit.”

 

*

 

He finds Keith later, after the last bell of the day. Attending a school stationed on a giant floating base in the sky doesn’t leave many options for after-school transportation, prompting most of the freshmen to migrate indoors to escape the early autumn sun while they wait for the buses home.

“Hey.”

Keith looks up.  His cropped red jacket has been replaced by a black letterman.  It dwarfs him at the shoulders; Lance catches sight of the little patch across its lapel that reads _Shirogane_ before Keith shifts and it slips from view.

“What do you want.”

“Look, I just wanted to formally apologize for what happened earlier today—it was an accident, honest.”

Keith studies him carefully before giving him a grudging nod.  “Fine.”

“And, uh, sorry about my parents locking your mom up—”

_Wrong move._

In a flash, Keith has grabbed him by the front of his jacket, his face frighteningly close.  “ _Don’t_ talk about my mom.”  

“Okay, okay!” yelps Lance, hands raised.  “Noted. I was just trying to extend the olive branch or whatever, but fine, we’re done, it’s over, it’s—is something _burning_?”

The area around Lance’s chest has grown suddenly warm.  Looking down, he notices a column of flame licking up his jacket.

“Holy shit—” He shoves away from Keith, third-grade fire safety instincts kicking in as he covers his face with his hands, drops to the ground, and _rolls._ The sounds of the cafeteria fade away, replaced by the rush of blood to his ears.  After what seems like an eternity, the fire is properly smothered, and Lance lies on his back panting.  The fluorescent light overhead splits into two wobbly images, briefly, before he blinks and they reconcile themselves back into one.

Slowly, he sits up.Body: unharmed. Pride: wounded. Jacket: singed. Keith appears slightly remorseful, but that expression gets wiped cleanly away as soon as Lance opens his mouth.

“What the hell!  _Seriously?_ ”

“You ruined my jacket.  Consider us even,” says Keith, crossing his arms.

In hindsight, there are various arguments Lance will come up with in his defense, ranging from the somewhat petty to the somewhat more justifiable.  He was, maybe, a little jealous that Keith could shoot fireballs out of his hands.  Also, the amount of damage he’d caused Keith’s jacket versus the amount of damage that _Keith_ had caused was grossly inequivalent.  Lastly, there was the matter of his pride.  Lance was used to being the underdog, and there was no _way_ he was going to let himself be bullied into submission.   

In the moment, though, Lance is slightly less articulate.

“ _ARGH,_ ” he yells, lunging for Keith’s legs.

It’s one of the most beautiful tackles he’s ever made in his life.  Keith goes down in one fell swoop, like a tree whose trunk has been chopped cleanly through.  Immediately, Lance scrambles upward to maintain the upper hand, and the two of them tumble over each other, scrabbling for purchase.  Lance knows from the occasional tussle with Anais (back before she’d learned how to dampen other people’s anger) that long hair is always a weak point, and he reaches for the end of Keith’s mullet and _pulls._   

“Get _off_ of me!” Keith roars.

He catches Lance’s cheek, stunning Lance long enough to twist free and put some distance between them.  Their fight has drawn a ring of spectators, and Lance gets to his feet and raises his fists, breathing hard.

Opposite him, Keith conjures up a fireball in each hand.

Lance’s eyes dart sideways.

There’s a fire extinguisher on one of the columns.

He runs.

One of Keith’s missiles narrowly misses him, exploding against the wall instead and eliciting a burst of screams. 

“Somebody get the principal!”

“Lance!” Hunk’s voice. “Duck!”

Lance does, just in time for another fireball to soar past where his head was.  This one hits the fire extinguisher he was aiming for, however.  The canister bursts, spewing white foam everywhere.  His only plan of attack foiled, Lance whirls around and dives under the nearest table, just in time.

“Get out of my way!”

A drop of sweat trickles down Lance’s back.  The table and its attached bench provide a protective fort of sorts, but he’s not sure how long it’ll last.  Groaning, he pushes himself up and peers out of his little enclosure.

His heart plummets.

Because there, in cargo shorts and a mustard yellow shirt, stands Hunk.  Arms thrown out wide.  Shielding him.

“Stay out of this, Garrett,” Keith warns.

“Try me,” counters Hunk, voice remarkably calm, and Lance’s whole body seizes up.  _If Hunk gets hurt—_

The cold fear snakes its way up his spine and to his fingertips.  Lance swallows, looking around for something he can use as a weapon, then freezes.

_No way._

Across the backs of his hands glimmers a thin crust of ice.  As Lance flexes them, the glittering patterns thicken in some spots, whitening against his skin.  Experimentally, he touches the pads of his fingers to the floor, delighting in the frosted surface that appears.

_Oh man oh man oh man—_

Outside his little bubble of revelation, though, the confrontation continues.  Keith takes a step forward, but Hunk remains rock solid, unmoving.  Neither of them looking at Lance.

He seizes upon the distraction, sliding out from under the table.

“Hey, Keith!”  He raises his hands.  “I think you need to… _chill._ ”

 

*

 

Lance’s parents, understandably, are less interested in hearing about how their son turned his rival into a human popsicle, mostly because they’re too busy freaking out about the letter from Principal Alfor.

(“Really, Lance, _really?_ ” says Mamá, passing the carrot in her hand over the shredder a bit more forcefully than necessary.  “It is the _fourth_ day of school.  Even _Tommy_ waited at least two weeks before he got slapped with a detention.”

Papá is perhaps a little less on edge—“I knew _one_ of you would take after me, eh?” he winks, but he quickly sobers up when Mamá shoots him a look. “You need to be more responsible, though.”)

None of it lowers Lance’s spirits.  He’s whistling as he scales the apple tree and hauls himself over the edge of Hunk’s roof that night, veins thrumming with his newfound potential.

“Aren’t you supposed to be grounded?” Hunk says, raising an eyebrow.

“Couldn’t stay away from you, big guy.”  Lance grins, throwing his hands behind his head and staring up at the stars.  The roof tiles are warm against his back, their heat slowly dissipating into the night air.  “I just…still can’t believe it.  I have _powers,_ Hunk.  _Ice_ powers _._ ”  He raises a hand, conjuring up a chunk of hail for emphasis, then lobs it off the roof with all his might.  The two of them listen as it hits the concrete with a satisfying _crunch._

Hunk remains silent.  A lift of his hand, and one of the apple tree’s branches moves toward him, a small knot bulging upwards and outwards until a fully ripe orange has emerged, falling into his lap.  The branch retracts.  With practiced precision, Hunk digs his thumb into the orange’s skin, avoiding eye contact.

“Hunk?” Lance sits up.  “Talk to me, buddy.”

“Look, Lance… I’m happy for you, obviously, but are we just going to conveniently forget that had you _not_ had a sudden onset of your powers, you could have been burned to a crisp?”

“You’re mad,” Lance realizes, almost wonderingly.

“Of course I am!  I leave you alone for all of what, ten minutes, and suddenly you’re engaged in a duel to the death.  Do you have _any_ sense of self-preservation?  Do you have any idea how—” 

“Hunk.” Lance covers Hunk’s hands with his, realizes they’re shaking.  An arrow of guilt pierces his chest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking.  But hey.” He squeezes.  “You saved me.  In fact, I think— I don’t think I’d have activated my powers, if it weren’t for you.”

Hunk squints at him.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean I saw you standing up for me, and I panicked, and I think that might have triggered something or whatever.  I don’t know, it was weird.  I just— I’d never thought about you actually getting hurt on my behalf before…”

He trails off, struck, suddenly, by their closeness.  Moonlight gleams on Hunk’s upper lip.  Somewhere in the midst of Lance’s rambling, Hunk has adjusted their grips, and his thumbs rub over Lance’s knuckles in a delicate back and forth.  Lance has a strange urge to trace Hunk’s eyebrows, to smooth out the creases on his forehead, but he stays his hand.

It’s too honest.  But that doesn’t make sense.  How can anything be too honest with his best friend? 

“Lance?” Hunk prompts.  “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing,” Lance says, too quickly.  “Just that— you’re one of the most important people in my life, you know? You’re my best friend.  Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Hunk echoes.  Soft.

Lance pulls back, focusing on the worn edge of his right shoe.  Clears his throat.  “Yeah.”

The moment passes.  Hunk tilts his head back, eyeing the sky.

“You’ll probably be bumped up to hero track, now,” he says.  “It’s early enough in the year that it won’t be that hard to reorganize your schedule.”

“Come with me.”  Lance turns to him, eyes bright.  “It’s where you belong, anyways.  You can do amazing things, Hunk.  People deserve to see that.”

Hunk shakes his head.  “I meant what I told Coach Haggar.  I don’t need to show off my powers just so someone else can assign them a value.  As long as I can protect the people I care about, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Yeah, but.” Lance can’t help some of the petulance that creeps into his voice.  “We’d be together.”

“Like I could ever get rid of you.”

“Unfair,” complains Lance, reaching over to shove Hunk’s shoulder.  Hunk catches him easily, larger hands enveloping his smaller ones, and it devolves into a minor scuffle until they’re both lying spread eagle on the roof, chests rising and falling.  Lance feels stretched out, a rubber band brimming with tension, alert with the ripe magic of the night and a different awareness, creeping in at the corners.  A newness, strange and maybe the tiniest bit frightening.  So much change, all in the course of a single day.

“Hey, Hunk?”

“Yeah?”

“What if I make ‘Ice, Ice, Baby’ my theme song?”

A groan.

“I’m going to push you off this roof. Right now.”

 

*

 

Per Hunk’s prediction, Friday morning finds Lance greeted by Allura, a new schedule in her hands. 

“Congratulations, Lance,” she says, words lilting with that unplaced accent.  “You’re a hero.”

It’s the kind of statement that, in Lance’s mind, seems like it should be accompanied by more fanfare; he half-expects a shower of confetti to appear over his head.  Reality is less colorful.  In high school, it turns out being a hero largely involves him pushing past people in the hallway in order to locate his new classroom.

 _Weapons Lab (Coran)_ is the first course on his sheet.  Lance slides into Room 301B just after the bell.

“Mr. McClain! Welcome,” chirps the instructor at the front, bushy orange mustache moving up and down.  “There’s an open seat by Nyma, I believe.”

Nyma, it turns out, is the pretty cheerleader from yesterday, and Lance tries to make himself appear taller as he makes his way over.  _You can do this, Lance.  You’re smooth._

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Pale pink lips curl into a smile, the yellow eyeshadow over her lids appearing like a glimpse of the sun as she winks.

“So,” Lance says, looking around the room as he settles into his seat, “is this partnership thing, ah, permanent, or…”

Nyma giggles.  “Depends on how good you are at assembling a blaster.”

Scattered parts lie on the black tabletop: assorted nuts and bolts, a sleek black and orange pod vaguely resembling a battery pack.

“Can’t say I’ve ever tried before, but I was a pretty pro Lego assembler back in the day.”

Nyma studies him. “You’re a freshman?”

“Yeah.  What are you?”

“Senior.”

“Oh. Well, I’m a quick learner, if that’s what you’re worried about.  Lance McClain, at your service; I promise I’ll pull my weight—”

“Lance,” Nyma touches his arm. “ _Relax_.  I’m not worried about it, I think it’s kind of cute. I saw your fight in the cafeteria yesterday, you know.”

Lance gulps.  “Uh, yeah, that was… that was me.”

“Ice powers— like your dad, right?”

“Yeah, just like my dad.” A note of pride creeps into his voice.  “What about you?”

“I can replicate myself.” The answer comes from over his left shoulder, startling Lance into nearly falling off his stool.  He turns around to see a _second_ Nyma leaning against the table, everything from her high pigtails to fitted crop top a perfect duplicate of the one sitting to his right.

“No powers in the weapons lab,” Coran calls from the front, turning away from the blackboard to frown.  “You know better, Ms. Chabert.”

“Sorry, sir.” Nyma bends her head in apology.  Her double merges back into her body; it’s a weird effect, like stretching a slinky and then watching it reset.  Lance waits until Coran has gone back to illustrating his diagram on the board before nudging Nyma in an attempt to cheer her up.

“Double the trouble, huh?” he teases.

Nyma’s fingers brush against his as she hands over a screw, smiling. “Something like that.”

 

*

 

Just when Lance didn’t think gym class could get any more ridiculous, it does.  The entire school fills the bleachers, everyone’s eyes turned toward the giant scoreboard.  3:00 read the digital white numbers.

“Does it ever strike you,” says Pidge, observing the robotic dummy suspended over a pit of spiked gears, rope tied around its waist, “how awfully sacrificial this whole thing is?”

“Nothing like the prospect of someone else’s death to get the adrenaline going,” replies Hunk.  “Popcorn?” He offers the bag to Pidge and Lance.

“Someone should do a psych study,” Pidge decides through her mouthful, crunching away.  “Sympathy or Spectacle: Observation of the Effects of High-Stakes Simulations on Adolescent Populations, Taking _Save the Citizen_ as a Case Study.”

“Wow,” Lance deadpans.  “Sounds like you’ve written the entire first paragraph already.”  

A piercing whistle interrupts.

“Attention,” Coach Haggar calls.  “Sendak and Lotor, you’re up.”

On the other side of the bleachers, two guys stand.  Sendak’s hair rises high above his forehead, gelled into two small tufts on either side of his head in a style reminiscent of Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine.  Lotor, meanwhile, is all serpentine grace, a sleek white ponytail falling midway down his back as he and Sendak proceed to the gym floor.

“Heroes or Villains?” Haggar offers.

“Villains.”

“All right.” Haggar proceeds to selecting their opponents. “Lance McClain.”

It takes him a beat to process, until Pidge drives an elbow into his side. “Lance,” she hisses.  “That’s you.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” He squeezes past Hunk and tries to navigate the rope course of people’s legs on his way to the stairs, muttering _sorry_ as he steps on someone’s foot and kicks over a backpack.

Haggar waits until he’s suited up before reading the last name on her list.

“Keith Kogane.”

Immediately, the arena bursts into chatter.  A bright patch of red makes itself known— _looks like he got his jacket cleaned_ , Lance thinks bitterly.  And then his least favorite mullet is drawing closer, is _picking up a suit,_ is going to be his _teammate._

“Coach!” Lance whirls around in panic, trying to catch Haggar’s attention above the noise.  “Did you miss the memo where he basically tried to _torch me_ in the cafeteria?”

Up high in her observation chair, Haggar’s lips curve, for the first time, into a smile.

“Your time,” she says, raising her whistle, “starts now.”

 

*

 

It takes Sendak and Lotor ten seconds to lay both Lance and Keith flat.  Sendak has extendable limbs, just like Tommy, but Lance can’t get close enough to stop him because of Lotor, the speedster.  He struggles to his feet only for Lotor to send him tumbling again as he blows by, hair streaming past in a blur.

“Time’s ticking, boys,” Lotor taunts.  Above them, the Citizen drops another foot, droning: _Save me, save me._

Frustrated, Keith hurls a fireball, which Lotor dodges easily.

“Hey! Try not to roast _me_ while you’re at it!”

“Got any _better_ ideas?”

“Yeah, actually. Take Sendak,” Lance directs, making sure he has a clear line of vision. Under his breath, he mutters: “I hope this works.”

Keith does as he’s told, lobbing all his firepower at Sendak.  Sendak flinches from the heat, distracted, and Lotor picks up on his teammate’s distress, gearing up to take down Keith once more.

This time, though, Lance is ready.  A blast from his hands and the ground turns slick with ice; Lotor’s feet slip and he flails, skidding right into Sendak.  Both of them crash into the column behind them.  Quickly, Lance does his best to freeze them in place.

The clock reads 15 seconds.  Though the Citizen has dropped a significant distance, it’s still high enough out of reach that grabbing it isn’t an option, especially with the chomping pit of death below it.  On top of that, Lance isn’t sure how long his ice will hold.  Keith is also studying their situation, eyebrows furrowed as he looks at the Citizen, the rope, and the Pit. 

It’s now or never.

“Hey, Keith,” Lance calls, running over as close to the pit as he dares. “You ever tried using your powers like a jetpack?”

“No.”

“Wait, seriously? Not even _once_ have you thought, what would happen if I put my hands by my side and—okay, not relevant at the moment, just—do you trust me?”

“About as far as I can throw you.”

Lance rolls his neck, shakes out his shoulders, and grins, lacing his hands together to form a pocket for Keith to step into.  “Well, good thing I’m light as a feather, then.”

Their eyes meet.  In the background, the timer counts down from 5.

“Come on, Keith,” goads Lance.

And then Keith charges at him: boots pounding against the ground as he gets one foot in the loose cradle Lance has made and _pushes,_ fists by his side and blasting fire—he vaults over the pit in a wobbly arc, managing to snatch the Citizen right as the buzzer goes off.

The crowd explodes.  

 

*

 

He’s still riding the buzz from victory— _the first freshman team to win in 20 years—_ when he enters the cafeteria later.

“Lance!” Nyma waves him over.  “Come sit with us.  Rolo, scoot over.”

The boy next to her rubs a hand over the stubble on his chin and shifts, small gold hoop earrings winking in the light as he regards Lance.  The corners of his eyes have a downturned shape; combined with the backward snapback on his head, he radiates an aura of carefully cultivated _cool and casual._

“Uh, sure. Is there some more space for my friends to sit, too?”

Rolo’s gaze flickers, though his mouth remains neutral.  “Yeah, dude, sure.  If they _really_ want to, I guess.”

Beside him, Hunk bristles.

 _“Rolo,_ ” Nyma chides.

“No, it’s fine, we can take a hint,” says Hunk, holding up a hand.  He and Rolo lock eyes.  Hunk’s mouth tightens at the corners, suspicion knitting itself across his brow.

Lance moves toward his best friend.  “Wait, Hunk, maybe we can—”

“It’s okay, Lance.” In a flash, the attitude disappears. “You should sit with them if you really want to.”

A heavy pause.  It feels like a test, somehow, but Lance doesn’t know what he’s possibly being tested _for_. Hunk draws a little closer, studies him carefully from under his bangs. Waiting.

“I…” Lance’s eyes dart toward Nyma. “Are you sure?”

Hunk leans back. Such a slight motion—almost like he’d never entered Lance’s space to begin with. Like maybe this whole time they’ve been standing the full distance apart. 

“Yeah, no big deal.” Hunk smiles, but the skin around his eyes doesn’t crinkle.  “We’ll catch up later, okay?”

“Okay.”

Turning, Hunk leaves.  Pidge pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and shrugs at Lance before following.

The lasagna on his plate suddenly seems less appetizing.  Catching on to Lance’s discomfort, Nyma draws him down beside her and starts introducing her friends— _Florona, Luxia—_ and, gradually, the strange knot in his stomach unwinds.

 

*

 

He finds Hunk at his locker later.

“Hey, Hunk, about lunch—”

“I already told you, Lance,” says Hunk, pushing a textbook into his backpack. “Not a big deal.”

“C’mon, Hunk, I can read you better than that. You’re upset.”

Hunk looks at him sideways.  They hold eye contact for a while before he turns up his nose and sniffs. “Fine. But I’m not _angry,_ I’m…miffed.”

“Upset, angry, miffed—doesn’t matter.” Lance waves his hand.  “I’m making it up to you.”

“You are?”

“Of course.” He reaches for Hunk’s biceps, squeezing in reassurance.  “7 PM tonight, Vrepit Sal’s.  Just you and me and all you can eat.”

“…Fine,” Hunk concedes.  “But my forgiveness is coming in installments.  This is only your down payment.”

Lance puts a hand to his chest in mock hurt.  “And here I thought our friendship was priceless.” 

 

*

 

The paper lanterns hanging overhead cast a soft red glow as Hunk slides into the booth, inhaling the heady scent of grease and stir-fried vegetables.  Vrepit Sal’s—old haunt, neighborhood favorite, enduring mystery. _Where do those words even come from?_ Lance had asked once.  _It’s definitely **not** Chinese._

Not that the food Vrepit Sal’s serves could exactly be categorized as Chinese, either.  Vrepit Sal’s is one of those joints that tries to be a bit of everything at once; the result is a strange fusion, duck burger buns listed alongside scallion pancakes, pork floss fries, and lo mein.  Hunk settles back against the cushiony seats, grinning.  It’s comforting, visiting a place you’ve grown up with.  Through all the renovations, he and Lance have been here: the installation of the fish tank.  The gold-leaf wallpaper. The renovated buffet table.  He remembers Sunday afternoons spent piling their plates high with crab rangoons.  Grabbing handfuls of colorful cube-shaped mints on their way out— _you know how unsanitary this is, that they’re all just out in the open and not packaged, right?_ Hunk would say, while Lance grinned and ate them anyways.  Cracking open their fortune cookies.  Lance, scanning his own and then looking over at Hunk’s, in search of his lucky number 17.  How every time Hunk spotted one on his slip of paper he’d hand it over, because who cared about luck or fortunes?  He’d already hit his jackpot: Lance, sitting next to him, eyes bright. 

“Know what you want to order, yet?”

“Hey, Shay.” Hunk glances at his watch: 7:15.  “Just waiting on Lance; he’ll probably be here in five minutes.”

He could make the call himself, but there’s no fun in that. He and Lance usually raid the buffet and then order two extra dishes from the menu; Vrepit Sal’s makes _amazing_ leftovers. One of these days, Hunk is going to snag a job in their kitchen just to get a glimpse of their wizardry. In the meantime, though, he settles for being on the other side of things, tasked with navigating the sheer variety of options.  It’s a time-honored tradition: Lance picks three dishes, then Hunk picks three, and they go back and forth making cases for each until settling on their final two.

“Sure thing.” Shay leans a hip against the table, charms dangling from the two carefully coiled buns on either side of her head.  “How’ve you been, anyways?  Haven’t seen you around lately.”

“Freshman year’s… a lot.  I’ve been busy trying to keep up with all the changes, I guess.”

“Tell me about it.  We just hired a new server, so I’ve been training him.  I think he might be your age, actually.”

“Really?” Hunk cranes his neck.

“Yeah, he’s right over there.” Shay points with her pen at the boy currently wiping down the table across from them.  Half-apron around his waist.  Hair tied in a loose bun above the nape of his neck.

_Oh no._

“Huh,” says Hunk, voice strained. 

“Yep,” beams Shay.  “Sit tight, okay?  I’ll bring you back some tea, at least.  I hope Lance gets here soon.”

“Yeah.”  Hunk checks his watch again: 7:25 _._ “Me, too.”

 

*

 

There are two types of hunger.  There’s the stomach twisting, _I have to eat now_ kind, and then there’s the hollow, _I know something has to fill this but I can’t bring myself to actually swallow anything_.  At exactly 8 PM on a Thursday night at Vrepit Sal’s, Hunk is feeling the latter.

He’s succumbed and ordered a plate of chop suey, mostly because he feels guilty about staking out this corner for the past hour. It sits in front of him, untouched despite the rumblings in his stomach.  Shay keeps sending him concerned looks, but Hunk avoids them, choosing to stare at the unlit candle in front of him instead.  Lance hasn’t answered any of his messages.

He should just go home. Something probably came up, and that’s why Lance hasn’t shown. Knowing him, his phone is dead, even.

_Come on, Hunk, stop kidding yourself. Just leave._

The thoughts flit through his head, but his body refuses to budge.  Hunk sighs. Loyalty and stubbornness seem to be his two bad habits.

At 8:15, he’s considering giving the candle a name and anointing it his new best friend when Keith shows up.  Instinctively, Hunk ducks.

“Um…why are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding!” Hunk says a little too loudly, caught in the process of trying to fit himself under the table.  He gives up, head straightening over the top of his vest as he resumes a normal seated position. “I’m not.”

Keith raises an eyebrow.  “Sure.”

Hunk scowls.  “Do you blame me? I haven’t forgotten that you were willing to turn me into a nicely charred steak in order to get to my best friend.”

“I was just trying to intimidate you. I wouldn’t have actually hurt you!” Keith protests, voice rising in return. When Hunk regards him flatly, however, he brings a hand to the back of his neck and looks down.  “Sorry, though.  It, ah, got a little out of hand.”

Twin spots of color dot his cheeks. Hunk tilts his head. It’s heartening, actually, to see that even the fearsome Keith Kogane can get embarrassed.

“Why are you here?”

Keith looks around the restaurant. “I need money…?”

“No, I meant, like— why at my table, specifically.”

“Oh.  Shay’s off the clock.  She wanted me to bring you some more tea.” Keith raises the ceramic teapot in his hand.

“Oh.” Hunk holds out his cup.  “That’d be nice, actually.”

Keith pours for him, steam rising into the air.  The cup filled, he turns to go.

“Wait,” Hunk blurts, wincing when Keith turns back to him, surprised.  “Do you— want to sit down, maybe?  Just for a little bit.”

The clink of silverware reminds Hunk that they aren’t alone, but the restaurant’s earlier chatter has died down to a dull hum.  Only a few patrons left before they, too, call it a night.

“Yeah, sure.”  Keith shrugs. “I can spare a few minutes.”

He sits down opposite Hunk, white towel resting on his shoulder.  Neither says a word.  Eventually, Keith snaps his fingers and shifts forward, a tiny flame springing to life on his index finger as he reaches for the candle.

“What are you doing?  You’re not supposed to use your powers outside of school!”

“Relax.” Keith rolls his eyes. “I haven’t burned down the place yet.”

“If you do, you’re going to have to answer to me. This place is almost half my life.  I’ve been coming here since I was nine.”

“Not alone, I’m guessing.”  Keith leans back against his seat.  “Where’s McClain?”

“His name is _Lance._ ”

“To you, maybe.”

“Do you call everyone by their last name?”

Keith shrugs.

A bell chimes.  Hunk whirls around embarrassingly fast.  His heart falls when he sees Shiro instead, shaking water out of his hair and depositing an umbrella in the stand by the doorway.  Altea High’s star quarterback scans the room, eyes crinkling at the corners when they land on Hunk’s booth.  He raises an arm and waves; Hunk waves back.

When he turns around, though, he realizes that Shiro hadn’t been waving at him at all—Keith’s hand is in the air, a sudden brightness leaking from his expression.

 _Oh,_ Hunk thinks, eyes widening.  _So it’s like **that.**_        

“How long have you two been together?”

“I’ve known him since I was ten, if that’s what you’re asking,” says Keith, not breaking eye contact with Shiro as he nods his head behind him, indicating Shiro should wait in the back room.  “We just started dating this past summer, though.”  He returns his attention to Hunk.  “What about you? How long have you had feelings for McClain?”

“Pff— _what_?” Hunk nearly spits out his tea.

“He doesn’t know, does he.”

“Of _course_ he doesn’t, why would… Am I really that obvious?”

“Kind of, yes.”

Hunk groans.  “I can’t believe this. We’re like, not even friends yet, and _you_ know my feelings, but my best friend doesn’t.  Ridiculous.”

“To be fair,” says Keith, “your best friend is as dense as a block of ice.”

“Actually, ice isn’t that dense. That’s why it floats—”

“Okay, I get it.  Bad metaphor,” grumbles Keith.

Hunk grins.  “You know, you’re actually not that bad.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Keith says, discomfited.  He stands up, sliding out of the booth.  “Look, sorry to bail on you, but Shiro came by to pick me up, so I should probably get going.”

“Mhmm yeah, don’t let me keep you boys from your fun.”  Hunk rests his cheek against his hand and winks, delighting immensely in the red flush that crawls up Keith’s neck.

“I swear, if you breathe a word of this—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you all drop the big news on everyone when you show up to homecoming.  He _did_ ask you to homecoming, right?”

“…Yes.”

“Figures.  I knew I had Shiro pegged as a romantic for a reason.”

“This conversation is _over,_ ” Keith says through gritted teeth, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.  Hunk thinks he hears him mutter something like _patience yields focus_ under his breath.  “I’m leaving.”

“Bye, Keith.”

At the last minute, Keith stops, looking down at him.  Opens his mouth, hesitating, before plowing ahead.  “Hey, it might not be my place, but this whole pining thing… I’ve been there.  And the longer you draw it out, the more it sucks. You should tell him, Hunk.  It’s the only way you’re going to get closure, for better or for worse.”

Hunk closes his fingers around the fortune cookie in his hand, the plastic crinkling in his grip.

“Yeah,” he sighs.  “Yeah, I know.”

 

*

 

Friday morning has Lance in a good—no, _great_ —mood.  He finds Hunk at the bus stop, feet scuffing the sidewalk in a back and forth motion as he looks at the ground, hands clutching the straps of his backpack.

“Hunk, guess what, you’ll never believe what happened last night,” says Lance, swooping in and throwing an arm around his friend’s neck.

“Lance, I need to tell you something—”

“Nyma came over to help me study, right, because Weapons has been kicking my butt, but then my mom _invited her to eat dinner with us._   And I told her, ‘you don’t have to if it’s weird,’ but Nyma was all, ‘no, I’d love to,’ so she stayed.  Get this: my mom made ropa vieja for dinner, and you know she only does that when she’s trying to impress.  Anyways, I think my parents really liked Nyma, but that’s not even the best part.  We were walking back to her house later, and _she asked me to homecoming._ I thought maybe she had a thing with Rolo or something, but she asked _me,_ Hunk!”

Hunk eases out of his grip, massaging his neck.  Silent.

“Sorry, that was a lot. I probably should have talked slower.”

“No, it’s fine.” Hunk’s gaze is distant.  “I got all of it.”

“And?” He nudges Hunk’s side, grinning.  “What do you think?”

“Honestly?”

Lance blinks. “Of course.  We’re always honest with each other.”  He hesitates.  “…Aren’t we?”

Something passes over Hunk’s face, at that.  It’s gone before Lance can fully parse it, a shutter opening and closing. “I don’t trust them,” he finally says.

“Them?”

“Nyma, Rolo, that whole group.  A month into school, and they’re only now interested in you?  You have to admit that’s pretty fishy.”

Lance narrows his eyes.  “What are you saying?”

“It’s so _obvious,_ Lance!” Hunk throws up his arms, gesturing.  “They’re into your powers, not you.”

It’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed his mind.  Coming from Hunk, though, it particularly stings. “Gee, thanks for the heads-up that I have zero other winning attributes.”

“That’s not what I mean, Lance, and you know it.”

“I _know,_ Hunk,” Lance fires back, and it’s _frustrating_ , how they can still understand each other despite not being on the same page.  “But I’d rather be known for what I _can_ do than what I can’t.  So spare me the speech about how I’m still special no matter what, okay, because I’ve lived out that whole thing, but this is the first time— this is the first time I actually _feel_ like I am.”       

Hunk opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it.  The bus pulls up, the squeaky exhalation of its door hinges filling the space between them.  The argument isn’t settled, exactly, but it’s run out of fuel; in an attempt to make peace, Lance prompts: “You said you wanted to tell me something?”

“Never mind,” mutters Hunk.  “It’s not important.”  He reaches into his pocket, pulling out something wrapped in plastic and tossing it at Lance.  “Here.”

“What—” Lance looks down at the object in his palm—a fortune cookie—and realizes, just as Hunk moves past him and boards the bus.

 

*

 

“Hunk, wait up!” Lance chases after his friend once they reach campus.  Despite having shorter legs, Hunk maintains a steady clip ahead of him.  “I’m sorry, I completely flaked last night.  That was a jerk move.  _I’m_ a jerk—”

Hunk cups his hands around his mouth, still not answering.  “Keith!” he calls out instead.  It takes a minute for the other boy to locate the source of the noise; once he does, Hunk raises a hand and waves. 

Keith, to Lance’s utter shock, _waves back._

“What— since when were you guys buddies?” he asks, derailed by this more pressing matter.  “Hunk, he’s crazy!  And a walking blowtorch!  Also, we’re rivals; you can’t just— say _hi_ to him.  Since when were you guys even on speaking terms, anyways?”

Hunk spins around, and it’s like _he’s_ the one with ice powers—his withering look stops Lance dead in his tracks. 

“Last night.  8 PM.  Vrepit Sal’s.”

 

*

 

Lance does not have enough experience to be hosting this party.

Anais is away at college, Tommy’s at a friend’s house, Sofia and Manny have been dropped off with his grandparents for the weekend, and his parents are out celebrating their anniversary (“Don’t wait up for us, Lance, we’ll be home plenty late,” says Papá, winking).

Which is how Lance ends up scrambling to get out of the way of a beer keg as he pushes himself flat against a wall and inches over to Nyma, heavy bass music pumping in his chest.

“I thought you said it was just going to be the homecoming committee!” he yells, trying to be heard above the noise.

“This _is_ the homecoming committee,” replies Nyma.  “And a couple friends…” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, looking down at him with those big blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Lance, I didn’t know it would get this out of hand.  It’s been a hectic week, and all our hard work is finally going to show at the dance tomorrow.  They’re just trying to release some stress.”

Lance reaches for her hand, squeezing.  “Are you nervous?”

Nyma turns toward him, shoulder pressed against the wall.  “Yeah,” she says, something strangely conflicted in her eyes.  “It’s a lot.  I’ve never planned anything this… _big_ before.”

Behind them, a vase of flowers crashes to the floor.

“Come _on,_ guys, I said to watch the furniture!” Lance yells, trying to quash a rising sense of panic as he goes to find a broom.  “This room is officially off limits, now.  Out.”  The guilty parties obey, though whether it’s because of him or the dirty look Nyma is sending them over his shoulder, he doesn’t know.

She stays with him as he brushes the glittering wreckage into a pan.  It’s the only casualty of the night so far—he’ll be lucky if he can keep it that way.  After he’s done cleaning up, she squeezes his arm.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

He does.  God, he really, really does.  But he can’t completely ditch his house.  He’d offer up his room, but it suddenly seems lackluster, and besides, Nyma’s already seen it.   And no way is he bringing a girl into _Tommy’s…_

A grin steals over his face.

“I know _just_ the place.”

 

*

 

“So,” says Nyma, crossing the room to select a cue from the wall, “this is your secret lair.”

“Well, it’s not really _mine;_ more like my parents.’”

“Lance.” Nyma rolls her eyes, tilting her head as she leans over the pool table, body one long curve.  All around them stand his parents’ trophies and trinkets, nestled in plush podiums, but Lance’s eyes are fixed on only one prize.  “Are we going to play or not?”

 

*

 

Lance’s head is still dizzy from the press of Nyma’s lips when they go back upstairs, returning to the chaotic noise of the party.  She sends him to get her a drink, fingers walking lightly across his shoulder, and he obliges.

“Having fun, kid?” Rolo leans against the cooler, nursing a beer.

Lance bristles a bit at “ _kid_.”  Then again, he can barely grow a mustache, while Rolo has a five o’clock shadow coming in, so there’s not a whole lot of room for argument.

“Yeah,” he replies, finally locating the Diet Pepsi Nyma requested.  “You?”

“Yeah,” says Rolo, voice rough as he raises his drink in the air, a half-hearted salute.  “Can’t wait ‘til tomorrow.”

He can’t tell whether Rolo’s mocking him or not.  Puzzling over it, Lance leaves the kitchen.

And comes to a screeching halt upon seeing Hunk in his foyer.

He recovers from his surprise quickly, pushing to the front to stand by Nyma.  “Hunk?  What are you doing here?”

Hunk and Nyma are engaged in some sort of staring contest, but Hunk breaks away from it.  When he turns toward Lance, Lance takes a step back, startled.

He’s seen Hunk laughing to the point of tears. Seen him scared, worried.  He’s seen Hunk annoyed, angry, sad, but he’s never seen Hunk like _this:_ some bitter cocktail of hurt and disappointment and _betrayal._  

“I don’t know, Lance.  Apparently, it turns out I don’t know a _lot_ of things.”  His gaze flickers briefly toward Nyma, silent in the background, before falling back on Lance.  Condemning. “Least of all _you._ ”

“Hunk, wait!”  But it’s too late; his best friend has already disappeared down the walkway, fading into the night.  Part of Lance wants to chase after him, but he doesn’t know how much damage has been done, what to even begin apologizing for.  He whirls on Nyma.  “What did you say to him?”

Nyma wipes the guilt from her expression.  “Nothing that everyone didn’t already know.”  Beside her, Florona and Luxia cross their arms.  “Lance, it’s high school.  People grow up, and sometimes that means they grow apart.”

“Maybe, but that’s for _me_ to decide, not you!  Hunk and I have been through a lot together—”

“Hey, dude,” some guy interrupts.  “Is there something going on in your garage?”

“No,” Lance scowls, _this close_ to punching someone in the face.  “ _Why_ would there be anything happening in my garage?”

Understanding dawns.  Like enlightenment, but without any of the perks.  Lance would very, very much like to leave his current plane of existence right now. “Oh, _fuck,_ my _parents—”_

“—Are home,” finishes his mother.  

 

*

 

“Lance?” A knock, gentle on his door. 

Lance pushes himself up into a sitting position, covers falling down around his waist.  “Come in.”

His mom enters, radiant in her shimmering midnight blue dress.  The mattress dips beneath her weight as she sits next to him, still putting in her earrings.  Eventually, she sets a hand on his knee.

“Will you be all right home alone?”

The implications behind it are clear; Lance’s face burns, ashamed.  “Yes.”

Mamá tilts her head, placing a hand on his cheek.  “I’m sorry, Lance, but I hope you understand why we’re doing this.  You’re growing up, and life is going to throw a lot of things your way.  Learning to take responsibility for your choices in the middle of all that—that’s important.  There’ll be other dances.  Maybe next year.”

“It’s fine, Mom.  After last night… I’m not sure I really want to go, anyways.”

It’s not a lie.  Last night’s lecture, combined with cleaning up the house, has given him some much-needed clarity.  So he can’t find it in himself to be mad about being grounded on the night of homecoming. He’s just… tired.

“All right, mi amor.”  His mom presses a quick kiss to his forehead.  “We’ll see you when we get back.”

The door closes behind her.  Minutes later, he hears his parents depart, and then the house is all his.  Quiet.  Lance rolls out of the sheets and rummages under his bed, seeing if he can dig up anything to occupy the time.

His hand bumps against a shoebox. Frowning, Lance drags it into the light.  Its cardboard edges are worn at the corners, and he lifts the lid gently, unsure of what he’ll find.

Inside are hundreds of small, curled slips of paper, blue squares at their corners.  Lance grabs a handful, laying them flat.  _All things are difficult before they are easy. Something you lost will soon turn up. You will be invited to an exciting event._ On all of them, running along the bottom: _Lucky numbers. 17,_ circled in pen, pencil, and suddenly Lance is remembering: _here, you can have mine, it has your number on it anyways;_ warm palms, big hands, a rooftop, Hunk’s cheek soft in the moonlight.  Hunk, soft, yielding easily to Lance’s jokes and schemes, giving and giving and Lance always _taking,_ but Hunk unyielding, too, where it counts: framed in the fluorescent glow of the cafeteria like an avenging angel, the line of his shoulders a wall between Lance and anything that might hurt him.  Hunk, who makes flowers bloom with a touch and watches scary movies with him and hums the _Indiana Jones_ theme song under his breath to keep himself calm.

Hunk, who is mad at him and has every right to be.  Hunk, who is at homecoming, and whom Lance has to fix things with _right now._

Lance does the math.  It’s 7:30—the dance starts at 8, though his parents left early because there’s some sort of reception for alumni. They’ll make an appearance at the dance, too, since they’re the guests of honor—recipients of the Alumni with Distinction Award of the year—but with so many kids, he doubts they’ll spot him among the crowd.   

He grabs his cellphone.  Pidge picks up on the third ring: “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Lance—”

“Look, I know I screwed up big time and went AWOL on you guys these past few days but I really, really need your help.  Have you left for homecoming yet?”

His rapid-fire confession takes Pidge by surprise; he can hear her hesitate on the other end.

“No, Matt’s still getting ready… why?”

“I need a ride.”

“Hunk told me you were going with Nyma.”

“Plans changed.  Also I may have been, ah, grounded.”

“So this is a jailbreak,” says Pidge, a note of interest creeping into her voice.  “All right, I’m in. I’ll get Matt to bring the flying car by your house.  Do you have a suit? You’re going to stick out otherwise.”

“Yeah, I’ll just steal one of Tommy’s.  Thanks a bunch, Pidge.  You’re the best.” 

“Ha! Didn’t need you to tell me that.  Anyways, be ready by 7:50.  And Lance?”

“What?”

“You still haven’t officially said ‘sorry.’”

“…I’m sorry, Pidge.  I really, really am.”

“Apology accepted,” says Pidge.  “You’re going to have to work a lot harder to get Hunk back, though.  That _is_ what this whole thing is about, right?”

“We’ll discuss this in the car,” says Lance, hanging up.

He takes a deep breath and looks around his room.  A stray sock hangs over the back of his chair; he tosses it in his laundry hamper, then arranges the pillows on his bed into the rough outline of a body, drawing the blankets over them.  It’s not going to fool his mom if she comes in to talk later, but it feels like something he should do anyways, at least for appearances’ sake.

At the door, he rummages in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out the fortune cookie Hunk threw at him—still unopened—and then goes to raid Tommy’s closet.    

 

*

 

Although Lance may be annoyed at Nyma, he can’t argue the fact that she and her committee did a good job with decorations.  Blue and white balloons twine together in various arches.  A shimmery curtain of silver streamers provides the backdrop for photos, and the lights from the DJ station paint patterns on the walls, casting splotches of color on everyone’s faces.

He heads to the refreshments table because he figures that’s where Hunk’s most likely to stop first as well.

Instead, he bumps into Keith.

There’s an awkward moment where neither of them knows quite how to react.  Keith’s hands are full, each one holding a cup of punch.  His hair is tied back and he’s wearing a _bowtie_ , of all things. 

Lance clears his throat.  “…Hi.”

“Hi,” says Keith, left eye squinted slightly at him, assessing.  His next comment throws Lance for a loop: “Your tie’s crooked.”

Lance looks down. “Um, yeah, I was kind of in a hurry.”

Keith sets his two cups of punch down, gesturing with his fingers.  “Here, let me fix it.”

 _Promise not to burn it_ is on the tip of Lance’s tongue, but he swallows the comment down, figuring he should practice playing the peacemaker as much as possible tonight.  So he steps forward, letting his rival untie the loose knot around his neck.  Keith rearranges it with deft hands, giving it a firm tug as he steps back.

“Thanks,” Lance says, a little amazed that they’ve managed to spend five minutes in close proximity without anything exploding.

Keith shrugs. “Shiro taught me.”

“You guys are pretty close.”

“Yeah.” Keith looks at him carefully.  “So did you end up coming here with that cheerleader chick or with Hunk?”

“Neither.” Lance deflates.  “I’m actually looking for Hunk, though.  Have you seen him?”

“No.  I’ll keep an eye out, though.”

“Thanks,” says Lance, overtaken by a burst of gratitude.  “Not just for this, but for being a friend to him when I wasn’t. He told me about Vrepit Sal’s.”

Keith’s eyes widen; he mutters something like _that little_ under his breath, but Lance doesn’t catch the rest of it, already turning away.  The dance floor is his next target.

He pushes his way through the mass of bodies, searching for Hunk.  A flash of white catches his attention; Allura is caught up in the beat, hips swaying.  Right beside her, wearing a dapper vest over his button-down, is Hunk.

“Hunk!” Lance stumbles forward.  Hunk stiffens at his approach, and Lance reaches for his hand, desperate to prevent him from fleeing.  “Hunk, please, I have to tell you something—”

The high whine of mic feedback cuts him off.  A collective groan rises from the crowd as the music stops.  Principal Alfor waits for their attention, his voice a smooth baritone as he announces: “I hope you all have been enjoying your time so far.  Before the celebration continues, however, please join me in welcoming Nyma Chabert, without whom this dance would not have been possible.  I believe she also has some brief words of introduction for our guests of honor tonight, Mr. and Mrs. McClain.”

The spotlights fall on his parents, standing onstage to the side; at the attention, they smile and wave.

“Thank you, Principal Alfor,” says Nyma, stunning in her floor-length red dress.  “It’s my pleasure to have been able to put this on.  It’s truly been a group effort.  As for the two very important people here tonight…”  Nyma turns toward his parents, statuette in hand.  In one fluid motion, she presses something at its base, and the figurine separates into two pieces, one of which she levels at his parents.  It looks uncannily familiar, almost like the ray gun hidden in the basement at home—

_The Blue Lion._

Lance jerks at the same time that Nyma pulls the trigger—“Thank you for your service”—watching, horrified, as his parents disappear into thin air.

 

*

 

The room erupts into screams.  Immediately, an alarm starts blaring.  The cafeteria’s iron safety curtains begin to drop down over the windows, trapping them inside with the danger rather than keeping it out.  Nyma turns the Blue Lion on members of the crowd next, and people surge toward the exits, only to find a clone of her blocking every escape route, smirking behind the metal partitions.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Hunk grabs his arm, pulling Lance away from where he’s rooted.  Lance tries to spot Tommy in the mayhem, but it’s too difficult amidst all the panic.

 _“Dad!”_ A pained cry escapes from Allura as Principal Alfor gets hit by a blast.

Lance snags the older girl by the wrist.  “Come on, Allura, before she gets you, too.”

“Over here, kids!” waves Coran.  Beside him, Shiro rips a grate straight out of the wall, already ushering Matt and Pidge through.  Keith goes next, and then Hunk, Lance, and Allura are scrambling after him, Shiro and Coran bringing up the rear.

They fumble their way through the darkness on their hands and knees, breaths echoing loudly in the close confines of the vent.  Eventually they hit a dead end and Shiro has to squeeze past all of them to the front, where he gets them to freedom with a precise kick.

They spill into the hallway.  There’s a tightness in Lance’s chest—his mild claustrophobia has kicked in—but a hand on his shoulder holds him steady.  When Lance looks up, it’s Hunk standing over him, and in that moment he knows that they’re going to be okay.

Eventually, Shiro pipes up.  “That ray gun Nyma had—what exactly does it do?”

“I think I can answer that.” Matt steps up, adjusting his glasses. “From what my techno-senses were telling me, it seems that it opens up a pocket of space-time, and people hit by the blast are hidden away in that pocket.”  He looks to his sister for affirmation.

Pidge nods.  “That’s what I picked up on, too.”

“Okay, so, at least we know they’re not dead,” says Shiro.  “Is it reversible?”

“Anything is, with enough time,” says Pidge.  “The question is if we can get our hands on the parts we need…”

“Leave that to me,” Coran offers.

“Okay.” Shiro nods, as if drawing up a play in his head.  “Matt and Pidge, you go with Coran to the weapons lab and see if you can build us something to undo whatever Nyma’s done.  The rest of us will go back and try to control the situation.”

“Wait, before we go…” Lance speaks up, turning to Hunk.  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry, in case I don’t get the chance to do it again.  I’ve been a really crappy friend these past few days.  I was so convinced I had something to prove, but I just ended up alienating the one person who never asked me to prove anything to him.” He takes a deep breath, reaching for Hunk’s hand.  “Forgive me?”

Hunk rubs a thumb over the back of his hand, a slow deliberation.  The look on his face is contemplative, and Lance is reminded of the first time they ever met.  The new boy on the block.  His age, with a snub nose and thick eyebrows, clutching a plastic dump truck to his chest.  How, eventually, he’d extended a hand and said _hi, I’m Hunk;_ later, up in his playroom, Lance had made him laugh for the first time, Hunk’s eyes disappearing into little creases and his mouth open so wide you could see his molars, and Lance had decided that he wanted to be responsible for that laugh for the rest of his life.

“You’re forgiven,” Hunk finally says.  Lance wants to bury his face in the crook of his neck, he’s so relieved.  He actually does move to hug Hunk, but Keith interjects.

“So, um, not that that wasn’t a good speech or anything,” says Keith, “but we should probably be going—”

“Well, well, well, look what we have here,” comes a silken drawl.  Lotor saunters down the hallway toward them, Sendak at his heels.  “Didn’t care for the party?”

“You _asshole,_ ” Allura snarls, and then suddenly she’s towering over all of them, ten feet tall and glowing electric-blue.

“Holy shit.” Lance turns to Pidge.  “Did you know she could do that? I didn’t know she could do that.”

Lotor cracks his neck back and forth, shaking out his limbs.  “This’ll be fun.”

“Hunk and Lance, you guys go get Nyma!” directs Shiro, raising his fists.  Keith steps to his side, arms already rippling fire.  “We’ll take care of this.”

Lance doesn’t need to be told twice.  Already, adrenaline is running through his veins, fingertips tingling in anticipation.  “C’mon, Hunk.  Let’s go catch some bad guys.”

 

*

 

“All right, here’s the game plan.  Nyma doesn’t know your powers, so I’ll be the distraction, and then you vine her up.  We’ve got to wait for just the right moment, though, when she thinks she has the complete upper hand.  Got it?”

“Got it.”

Lance clasps his best friend’s shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes.  “You’re my secret weapon, Hunk.”

 

*

 

With everyone gone, the cafeteria is eerily quiet.

The metal curtains have gone back up, uncovering the windows.  Nyma stands in front of one, bathed in a moonlit glow, her back to the wreckage she’s caused.  Blue and white balloons lie scattered across the cafeteria floor; Lance sidesteps one as he makes his way to the center of the room, ready for his final stand.

Part of him knows it would spare a lot of time, probably, to shoot her while her back is turned, but the first page of the Superhero Code of Honor is still fresh in his mind from Wednesday’s exam, so Lance makes his presence known per Directive 2: _If possible, apply reason before force_.

“Nyma,” he announces, voice echoing loudly in the silence, “why are you doing this?”

Nyma whirls around, eyes widening before she composes herself and narrows them at him instead.  “Lance.  You shouldn’t have come back.”

“There’s not a lot of other places for me to go, especially considering you evaporated my parents.  What did they ever do to you, anyways?”

“Believe it or not, none of this is personal.”

“Well, it’s about to be,” says Lance, frost gathering at his fingertips.

Onstage, Nyma divides into two, and then four, and then eight, until there are ten copies of her stalking toward him on stilettos, all feline grace.  Lance blasts ice at one of the center ones, but she dodges easily.  At the same time, an empty punch bowl sails at him through the air; he manages to duck just in time, watching it shatter against the floor.

“That’s going to take another bake sale fundraiser to replace,” he mutters, turning and catching Nyma-10 straight in the chest.

In front of him, what Lance presumes to be the true Nyma cries out in pain and then lunges at him.  For a second, it seems they’re evenly matched, but the duel quickly becomes a dogpile as the rest of her doubles converge on top of him.  Lance can sense Hunk still waiting in the vent, ready to leap into action, but he sends out a silent plea: _not yet, Hunk, trust me._   Amidst the whirl of fists driving into his gut and the hair blocking his vision, he manages a burst of strength—it explodes from him like a miniature snowstorm, the temperature in the room dropping as Nyma’s copies are flung off.  When the flurries around him clear, only one Nyma is left, dazed from being thrown against the podium.

“Come on, Nyma,” Lance coaxes.  “Just give back the Blue Lion.”

Nyma struggles to push herself up onto her elbows and fails, sliding down again.  “I don’t… have it.”

Lance stops short.  “What do you mean you don't—”

His words are cut off by the electric shock delivered to the base of his neck. Lance’s muscles seize up, his body tipping forward—a strong arm catches him mid-fall, easing him sideways.   

“Sorry, kid.” Rolo looks down at him grimly.  “Like Nyma said, it’s nothing against you personally.” 

The job finished, Rolo moves to help Nyma, easing an arm around her back and draping one of her arms over his shoulder.  He helps her hobble back over to Lance, where the two of them stand, overlooking his prone figure.  Nyma nudges his side with her shoe, blue eyes remorseful.

“I really did think you were cute, you know.”

Lance’s vocal cords, at least, are still working.  He flashes back to Tommy’s comments in their basement, considers that his voice just might be his superpower after all.

“Hunk!” Lance yells.  “ _Now!”_

All around them, the room brightens.  The trees from the courtyard press closer, as if trying to peer inside; Rolo and Nyma turn around, frowning, just in time to see the glass give way.  Branches and vines explode into the room, zigzagging across the floor and ceiling.  A tendril wraps itself around Rolo and Nyma, yanking them off their feet as Hunk rushes to Lance’s side.

“Where did _you_ come from?” asks Rolo, at the same time Nyma protests, “I thought you were a sidekick!”

“I am.” Hunk shoots both of them a dirty look, helping Lance to his feet.  “Let’s get out of here, Lance.  They probably had a getaway ship or something; I bet the Blue Lion is on that.”

“Wait!” Nyma’s voice climbs in panic. “You can’t leave us here.”

Hunk crosses his arms.  “Oh _really_ now.  Give me one good reason why not.”

“We don’t have the Blue Lion because Haggar has it!” Nyma confesses.  “She’s with the Galra; we only helped her because Rolo and I have a debt to pay.  She’s headed to deliver it back to them right now.  You might still be able to catch her, but you’ve got to let us get out of here—she rigged the antigravity system to shut down in ten minutes.  This whole place is going to fall out of the sky.”

 

*

 

“Lance?” Pidge picks up immediately. “Did you catch Nyma?”

“Good news, yes.  Bad news: turns out _Coach Haggar_ is behind this whole thing, and we’re about to have a situation.”

“Talk fast.”

“The antigravity system is failing.”

“Shit, that’s bad.  Matt—Matt, can you and Coran take care of this? I have to do something.”

Something trades hands in the background, a metal _clunk_.  Lance keeps his phone on speaker as he runs down the hallway, Hunk right on his heels.

“All right, I’m back,” says Pidge.  “So, I can sense where the system is and I’ve got an idea of what needs to be done, but it’s actually getting access that’s the problem.  The only ducts leading to it are all, like, gerbil-sized.”

“Can’t you build a robot or something?”

“Yeah, if I had more time.  I keep telling you, Lance, I’m techno-intuitive, not techno _pathic_ —” 

“Perhaps I can help,” Allura offers.  The sound of high-pitched squeaking emits from Lance’s phone speakers, drowning out Allura’s words to a dull murmur in the background.

“Allura?  Allura, I think you’re breaking up—Pidge, what is she doing?  Who is she talking to?”

“The mice.”

“The— _what?_ ”

“I can talk to mice,” Allura explains over the chatter.  “It’s my second power.”

“I…”  Lance looks at Hunk.  _I’m not hallucinating this conversation, right?_

Hunk shrugs.  _It’s Allura—did you really expect anything less?_

“So the mice are going to fix the antigravity machine.”

“With guided instructions from me,” Pidge clarifies.  “Enough small talk. Go take down Haggar.”

She hangs up, with perfect timing.  Hunk and Lance burst through the doors into the parking lot behind the gym, just in time to see their gym teacher take off from the tarmac, jetpack strapped to her back and ray gun cradled against her chest.

 _“Freeze!”_ shouts Lance, taking aim.  His blast hits dead-on; Haggar drops out of the air like a stone.

“You’re going to use up all your one-liners,” warns Hunk.

“Eh, it’s for a worthy cause.”

A purple blast of energy cuts their celebration short.  Hunk and Lance dive apart, finding cover behind the school buses in the lot.  Haggar emerges from her small, smoking crater, hair in disarray.

“You _fools!”_

“You signed a contract!” Lance shouts, hoping to draw Haggar toward him.  He meets Hunk’s eyes, indicating that Hunk should edge around and try to take Haggar from behind.  “No harm shall come to students under your care.”

“You think I _care_ about this place? This _playground?_   High school.” Haggar snorts derisively.  “The real world is going to eat you _alive._ ”

A blast takes out the bus Hunk had been hiding behind; Lance holds his breath, trusting Hunk to have found a different spot by now.  Haggar’s footsteps are drawing closer; slowly, Lance inches to the left, readying himself to meet her.

The confrontation never comes.  The cold kiss of a muzzle greets the right side of his head.  Swallowing, Lance turns, the Blue Lion pressed against his temple, an orb of purple energy crackling between the fingers of Haggar’s free hand, her eyes gleaming in the moonlight. 

“Mr. McClain,” she sneers.  “Any last words?”

“I always knew gym was evil—”

Lance’s stomach bottoms out as he drops to the ground, suddenly in freefall.  Haggar also hits the asphalt, the Blue Lion firing on somebody’s silver car instead as the impact on her wrist makes her loosen her grip.  Quickly, Lance kicks the weapon as far away from the two of them as he can, then grabs on to the undercarriage of the schoolbus.  He can already feel his body lifting, eyes watering and suit jacket flapping wildly as the entire school plummets downward through the air.

A pressure on his ankle makes him look down; Haggar has grabbed on to him to keep from flying away.  He tries to kick her off to no avail, the two of them stuck at an impasse: hands too busy holding on for dear life to take shots at each other, vision too impaired to focus well enough to aim.

Just when Lance thinks he can’t maintain his grip any longer, a root bursts from the concrete, curling around his waist and holding him down like a seatbelt.  It does the same to Haggar, although it pulls her away from him and binds her limbs more tightly.  _Hunk,_ Lance thinks deliriously.  _You god among men, you._   

 _“Madre de Dios,”_ he says aloud, finally coming to terms with his mortality as he lies flat on his back, watching the stars recede with frightening speed.  “Please, I didn’t even get to graduate—”

As if in answer to his prayers, the flying saucer of Altea High screeches to a stop.  Lance’s head jerks back against the concrete, blood gushing into his mouth as he accidentally bites on his tongue.  For a moment, everything hangs in limbo; and then, slowly, they begin to rise, accelerating upwards.  Lance makes a mental note to spend the rest of freshman year thanking Pidge and Allura.

When they finally, blessedly stop for good, he’s ready to puke.  The root keeping him in place releases its hold, melting back into the ground.  Rolling over onto his knees and elbows, Lance begins the long process of dragging himself toward Hunk.  Best friend. Sidekick. Savior. Ride or die, light of his life—the list, in his head, grows progressively longer as he crawls away from Haggar, who has taken to yelling expletives as she tries to free herself from her plant cocoon.

“We…did… it,” pants Lance, collapsing at Hunk’s side.  The Blue Lion is lying around somewhere—they’ll have to trawl through the parking lot to find it—but for the meantime, he’s content to celebrate still being alive, scraped elbows, torn jacket, bruised ribs and all.

Beside him, Hunk groans. “I’m exhausted.  Let’s never do that again.”

 

*

 

Later, once Haggar, Nyma, and Rolo are taken into custody and the Blue Lion’s damages are reversed, everyone returned to the proper dimension; later, once the cafeteria has been cleaned up and Pidge and Matt have fixed the sound system; later, when homecoming has managed to prevail, despite all odds, Lance looks at Hunk in the flashing lights of the dance floor and says, “Go ahead and say it.”

Hunk raises both eyebrows, feigning ignorance.  “Say what?”

“I know you want to.” Lance steps closer, lacing their fingers together and rolling his eyes.  “So just go ahead and do it already, I’m giving you a free pass.”

Hunk bites his lips, holding out for all of five seconds before succumbing.  “I _told_ you so!” he blurts, entirely too gleeful.  “I _told_ you there was something fishy about Nyma and Rolo.  Now, did I peg your girlfriend as having supervillain sympathies?  Not exactly, but—”

“ _Ex_ -girlfriend,” Lance interrupts.  “And we never actually defined the relationship, so it doesn’t count.”

“You’re ruining my gloating session, Lance.”

“Oh, right.  Carry on.”

“Nah, I’m basically finished now.  But while we’re on the topic… does _this_ count?” Hunk draws back slightly, indicating the space between them.

“Of course it does,” pouts Lance, missing Hunk’s warmth already.  He pauses, dropping one of Hunk’s hands to reach into his pocket.  “Shoot, I almost forgot.”

Hunk looks at the tiny slip of paper Lance has deposited in his hand.  “What’s this?”

“It’s the fortune from the cookie you gave me,” explains Lance, heat rising to his face.  “I opened it in Pidge’s car on the way here.  It had both of our lucky numbers on it; I thought, um, I don’t know, it kind of seemed like… fate.”

_The one you love is closer than you think._

_Lucky numbers: 2, 8, 17, 25, 62, 99_

Hunk closes his hand around it and shakes his head slightly, disbelieving.  “And here I thought I was going to be the corny one in this relationship.”

“Shut up!”

He grins, pocketing the fortune and pulling Lance closer, hands large and warm around Lance’s waist.  Lance lets himself be led, eyes fluttering shut at the touch of Hunk’s forehead to his, hair tickling his skin.  It’s not new, this proximity, but the slight swoop in his stomach is; and when Hunk speaks, it’s with all the tenderness of a gardener, Lance a flower angling toward the light. 

“I don’t believe in fate, Lance.  I believe in you.”

 

*

“So, can we kiss now or…”

“Oh! Is that… is that something you wanted to do?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ I, Hunk?  Now stop talking and—”

“Ow! Ow, Lance, I wasn’t ready, I think— I think you hit my tooth.  Oh, god. Is it loose?  It feels loose.”

“ _Hunk,_ stop it, it’s not.  You’re fine.  Let me just—”

“Kiss it better?”

“Something like that, yea—mmph.”

“…”

“…”

“Lance, maybe we should—”

“Get more practice? Yep. Definitely. Come here.”

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/mnonoaware), or down in the comments below !!! idk I just want to be friends


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